The ceiling began to shift and blur as something hammered his skull. Then everything went black.
Ortega felt cold… Increasingly cold… He dreamt of nothing.
His eyelids fluttered open, and the world around him was starting to make sense… Was starting to get coloured.
He heard murkiness as Bron's face blurred above him.
He was… alive?
'Of course I am. I'm the damn protagonist!' Ortega thought, but relief surged through him.
That was close.
Ortega became aware of the fan blowing violently beside him. That explained the cold. Bron's handiwork.
Bron's lips moved, saying something about if he was okay. Ortega couldn't answer, and Bron left his field of vision, leaving him to just stare at the ceiling.
Then suddenly—Ortega sat up and shrieked.
Cold water had splashed over him, drenching him completely. His heart beat faster than his mind could process what was happening. He sat and looked to his left and saw Bron holding a half-empty bucket of water.
"I said I'm awake! Dud—"
Splash!
Bron emptied the bucket on Ortega's face, and Ortega heaved loudly.
Water trickled dangerously through his ears. He brought his index fingers to his ears, rubbed them, and quickly stood up. Wet… but sweating profusely. He rubbed his inflamed nostrils and sniffed.
'What the fuck kind of rescue was that? I almost had a heart attack!'
Bron seemed ready to throw another splash at him.
"I'm awake, goddamnit!" Ortega yelled, standing and kicking the bucket out of his rescuer's hand, proving his point. Then suddenly, his hands dropped to his knees, and he began to heave as memories came flooding back…
The bone-deep fear of the assault. The trauma of having his nose struck. He touched it to see the bleeding had stopped—
Barely.
The adrenaline rush and triumph of coming out on top in a brawl. The creeping realization that he had broken someone's arm. He dismissed the last thought. Abomination!
"I did it," he proclaimed to himself, looking at his feet.
"Are you okay?"
He looked up to see Bron sidling toward him like a hermit crab. Ortega straightened. Bron pointed. Ortega looked and saw that the pistol was still in his right hand. That explained the hot weight and tightness.
"You wouldn't let go even as I tried to collect it from you while you were unconscious," Bron explained, looking at Ortega with a strange expression.
Ortega himself was just as bewildered.
If that was true, then doesn't that mean…
He has a superpower? It was definitely by the system! There was no other explanation.
He clenched his fist and felt something travel through his veins. Something heady.
{No dumbass, that's just survival instinct.}
The system notification flashed, and Ortega was dumbfounded. His shoulders slumped—oh…
Bron clapped him to focus. They had work to do, it seemed.
Ortega got to his feet and let Bron lead him around back, past the counter, to the middle of the store where two bodies lay beside each other.
Ortega swallowed.
Both chests were still heaving, thankfully.
He tried as much as he could to look away from the one with the broken arm.
He turned to Bron.
"What do we do?"
"Take them outside, of course. Don't want their bad energy in my store. Come on, let's get to it," Bron said, already walking over and lifting one of them onto his shoulder.
'Curses!' Of course he left Ortega with the broken-arm guy.
Ortega stood above the body, hands on his hips, contemplating how to go about this shit.
He sighed, bent down, gripped the unconscious man by his ankles, and…
pssshhhhhh...
He began to drag the body across the room, looking behind him as he made his way to the door. Outside, Bron had already dumped the first one by the dumpster.
Ortega brought the guy with the broken arm and laid him beside his comrade. Then he straightened, looking at the bodies, rubbing his elbows and feeling guilty.
"So what do we do now?"
"Mind our business, of course…" Bron said matter-of-factly.
"But this one's badly injured," Ortega pointed out tentatively. "He needs medical attention."
"When he and his pal come to…" Bron lit a ciggy and puffed. "They'll know what to do."
Ortega found himself shaking his head, the sides of his face twitching. How was the bastard so chill about this?
Bron looked left and right.
Ortega frowned at how suddenly sketchy he was being.
When Bron reached into his back pocket and pulled out two pistols, Ortega took a step back. Before he could raise alarm, Bron pressed the muzzle against his lips, signaling him to shut up.
Ortega swallowed and nodded.
Bron quickly squatted, placed the guns in the men's hands, manipulated them so that, in the end, it looked like they were sleeping unconscious with their weapons in sight.
When he finished, he stood up and looked at his handiwork with a satisfied smirk.
Ortega was simply dumbfounded at what he was seeing. Almost like… he's done this countless times before.
"Wait." Ortega looked about a bit, then lowered his voice. "Are they loaded?"
"I'm not stupid, genius." Bron deadpanned and opened his palm, revealing four resting bullets.
Ortega's eyes widened and he exhaled in relief. It still scared and thrilled him at the same time. Bron's composure as he regarded the unconscious bodies with a look of indifference.
Bron headed back into the store, and before he got in, he said over his shoulder,
"You might wanna scoot away from the bodies, unless the cops see you…"
With that, Ortega backed up and followed him inside.
"You keep saying 'bodies' like they're fucking dead," Ortega said after closing the door behind him.
"Well, they are, if they think that after this they can still show up to rob my store again…" Bron said, dailing a number on his phone.